Category: Poetry
The mules, I think, will not be here this hour; They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, How gracious is the mountain at this hour! A thou...
The mules, I think, will not be here this hour; They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes In which they have toil'd all night from C...
2. Chapter 2The noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream, We shall have left the woody tract, and come Upon the open shoulder of the hill. See how the giant spires of yellow bloom Of th...
3. Chapter 3Alone!-- On this charr'd, blacken'd, melancholy waste, Crown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth. Round which the sullen vapour rolls--alone! Pausanias is far hence, and tha...